


Stand By Me

by ReadingStuffNow



Series: DCU [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batman - Freeform, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Damian Wayne - Freeform, Dick Grayson - Freeform, Family, Friendship, Gen, Gotham, Gothamite, Jason Todd - Freeform, No Sex, Platonic Relationships, Siblings, jason screwed the pooch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:35:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReadingStuffNow/pseuds/ReadingStuffNow
Summary: Not every kid with shitty parents got adopted by Bruce Wayne.ORWhere Pharoah was sad and now she's pissed. Dead friends don't stay dead, but they do stay douchey.
Relationships: Batfamily Members & Jason Todd, OC - Relationship, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Series: DCU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635286
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Gothamite

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prologue, the other chapters will be longer. 
> 
> Thanks a bunch for reading, I hope you get tons of sleep and hugs!

When I first met Jason, he was already an adult, even in the body of a child. Seven, maybe eight. I was the same— half a year younger than him —one of the only friends I had. I didn't have much time for people, even back then. Neither did he. We were neighbors, two doors down from each other in one of the shitty apartments filling Gotham. It stunk of desperation and drugs, not much more than a slowly decomposing structure waiting to fall apart. He hated it here. Or, maybe he just hated being _here_ ; his dad beat on his mom and him so much and yelled so loud I could hear it from the fire escape outside my bedroom window. It made me angry and more than once I tried to stop him, but nothing could be done. The cops didn't care, neither did his mom, not really. I would know; she was just like mine.

His mom and mine got high by the docks every night, leaving Jason to get beat on and me to make sure the landlord didn't try to kick us out. I got really good at punching and even better at finding quick cash.

Jason tried to stay out of crime. He was smart enough to go to college, make something of himself. I knew he was. The only challenge was staying alive and out of jail until then. But, my friend was intent on being good.

I wasn't as noble.

By nine, I was a runner between gangs across Gotham, delivering messages or . . . other things. As I grew older, I— along with many other dirt-poor Gotham kids —started running more than just little baggies and notes. Backpacks filled with whole _bricks_ of Stardust, containers that would later kill the recievers— there wasn't really anything we _didn't_ do. Especially me.

Jason was different, though. He was _supposed_ to be the good one. But, like all the other Gotham kids, his morals went curvy. He was too old to start as a runner now without being questioned— they tended to use little kids more than pre-teens —so, he started doing other things. Big things. Stealing car ornaments was one thing— stealing _cars_ was a whole new level. Jason was ten— he was just a kid.

And the Bat caught him.

We don't talk about superheroes on my side of Gotham. Not positively, at least. So many people loved the Bat— thought he was a savior, the grace of Gotham. But, _my_ people— the lowest, worst things Gotham could offer —were filled with contempt towards the legend. I couldn't count the number of times I'd seen some random thug show up to tell a kid a story about the _thing_ that claimed to protect our city. Showing scars and fading bruises as evidence of the _pain_ he caused lower Gotham.

I grew up hating Batman.

Jason was one of the few kids in our section of Gotham who didn't despise him. Maybe it was because of how shitty his dad was, or because he wanted to help people too— whatever it was, it would've earned Jason a lot of trouble if he even said it aloud. I'd seen it happen enough times; anything to do with Batman was danger. Pure _fucking_ danger. The type that got a person killed.

It was karma that the Bat caught Jason— _my_ Jason. The guy who only stole when he was freezing and starving, when he _needed_ it. Not like me.

A couple of months later, after weeks spent looking for him, I saw Jason on the news. Bruce Wayne's newest ward. He was wearing a _suit_ and his hair had been combed back— he looked like those Gotham Academy kids who came to the docks looking to score every once in a while. And he was _smiling—_ happy.

I should have been happy. If our lives were flipped, Jason would be happy for me. He would just grin at the screen and let the weight roll of his shoulders. But, he was a better person than me.

Over the years, my bitterness turned to hate. I was _stuck_ in the crappy apartment I'd spent my entire life in, trapped in Gotham where half of the teachers quit within the first month and the other half gave up and just sat there while everyone went _crazy_. I lived (and admittedly, thrived) in chaos, but I hated it. I hated that my mom liked getting high more than she loved me and that I was so deep into the criminal underworld of Gotham that I couldn't get out even if I tried. And I hated that despite everything, despite _knowing_ it would end in my arrest or death— Jason still _left me_.


	2. Birthday

I was probably ten or eleven the first time I had a run for the Joker. I had been running for the Dominos— some minor gang that rarely dealt with the big guns. But the Joker was buying up nearly all the Stardust we had in town, or maybe it was Vertigo, since the Dominos worked closely with some other gang in Star City. I was sent with a backpack full of drugs, nervous and slightly wary. Everyone had heard some story or another about the clown prince of Gotham. He was clinically insane and always seemed to be breaking out of Arkham. Rumor had it that he even made one of the Gotham doctor's go insane just by _talking_ to her.

But, I needed cash and the Dominos weren't exactly _asking_.

It was a far run to the abandoned Amusement park nicknames _Amusement Mile_ , my only safety the pocket knife in my pocket. I chewed my inner cheek raw with worry as I neared the warehouse I was supposed to meet _his_ cronies in. The green spraypaint outside told me I had the right place, forcing me to walk inside.

I don't remember much of the next few months.

I ended up in Arkham somehow, but I can't remember why or how— even after so long, it's all a blur. They had me on crazy meds that made everything confusing. It turned out that the Joker was creating his own Insane Asylum out of the shit down wing of Arkham— where they used to do electro-shock therapy before it was ruled unethical by the state. He was filtering them into the running parts of Asylum as they mix of . . . _whatever_ it was he must've given us kicked in. That's what the reports said, at least. Batman shut it down, but I remember one of the Dominos getting _me_ out. It was part of some deal or whatever. They were short on good runners after the Bat's new Robin started, so they wanted me back.

It took a month for me to get back in commission, but they forced me back out after two weeks. The hallucinations— the paranoia . . . those things never really left. Not completely. Whenever it rained, I was suddenly overcome with a _force_ of panic and for the life of me, I didn't know why.

After that, I tried my best to avoid the Joker. I had completed a few more runs to him over the years, despite my hesitance. It wasn't like I had a choice. And it wasn't like I _liked_ what I was doing. My mom was an addict, Jason's mom had been an addict, from what I heard, my dad had been one too. I saw the crackheads on the streets and watched the little kids following in my footsteps.

Not all of us were adopted by billionaires who pretended to care.

I had tried to get out of it; more than once, I'd tried to _stop_. But it wasn't like you could just _get out_. It wasn't that easy. Not when they knew where you lived and went to school— not when they were your mother's suppliers. Not when you were trying to dig out of a hole you didn't dig and you were pretty sure you'd been _kidnapped_ a couple years ago and your mom hadn't even noticed and the _school_ didn't care and nobody else really gave a shit.Really.

Things were dirty and dark and they trapped you in place.

But, not today.

Today was different— I'd _make_ it different. It was my birthday.

Finally, I was fifteen— three years from leaving, a bus ticket away from freedom. It was all planned out, clippings and papers taped to my walls since I was ten; Central City college, then a job— a _real_ job —and I'd be off to someplace tropical where smog didn't exist and you could see the _stars_ when the moon came out.

* * *

Today, I was ready to face the day, or whatever.

That's what I tried to tell myself.

I went to school, walked home after, stuff my school bag under my bed and grabbed the black backpack that smelled faintly of the cigarettes seemingly everyone smoked and the sweat I was always covered in by the end of the night. Careful as I left Crime Alley, I went to the docks and a Domino pulled me into a shipping container, revealing the shipment. I handed over my backpack, standing silently as they stuffed the bag. I had arrived early tonight, hoping to leave before it was too late. Despite how familiar the city was too me, I never enjoyed being out at night alone.

The hood of my red sweatshirt was up and my legs were cold. I shouldn't have worn shorts— the summer nights were growing cold and the eyes of Gotham's worst were getting to me. It had been different when I was younger; back then, I was just some little kid nobody really _noticed_. I blended well and it kept me safe. But now . . . now, I was _different_. More than once, I'd been catcalled before and after my runs, whistled at as I took off. It was gross, but it was Gotham. Not much could be done. 

I pulled the straps of my backpack tight across my chest as it was handed to me, adjusting to the added weight easily. They gave me my location and I bit back a groan. I hated a lot of places in Gotham— maybe I just hated _Gotham_ as a whole —but, to me, the worst place was _Amusement Mile_.

The after-effects of the Joker's . . . games— those types of things were never really talked about. Not where I was, at least. You could never really get rid of it— the paranoia, the inexplicable urge to do something absolutely _crazy_.

But, you couldn't. You just got over it— you did your job and pretended you weren't scared. And if you thought it and said it every time that green hair filled your vision, maybe one day you wouldn't be scared at all.

My lungs struggled to continuously fill with air as my feet slammed against the pavement, the rest of my body slowly getting coated with sweat as I ran. The sun would be up in an hour or two, but I had yet to sleep. And my leg was on _fire_.

I tried to ignore it— the large cut running down the side of my calf —remembering the job. I had completed my end of the deal, so all I had to do was pick up my payment— well, the _rest_ of my payment —from the docks.

The docks— oh, god, the docks. I could practically _hear_ the waves crashing against old boats that no longer ran, the smell of the sewage-filled body of water invading my senses even from here. But, I could also hear the swish of a cape, feet chasing after mine— I had a hero on my tail.

It had been miles— he'd been after me for so, so _long_. And I kept going. I ran and ran and it never fully occurred to me what would happen if I _did_ get back to the docks. Who would save me? How would I get out of this absolute _mess?_

Panting, I made a sharp turn, knocking over a pile of crates as I whipped around. The laces of my converse threatened to trip me, lungs slowly starting to let me down. I fought the urge to stop, to address the searing burn on my leg, to just _rest_. But, I couldn't. Not with a Bat chasing me.

My hood had fallen off during my run across Gotham, not-dark-enough blue hair flying behind me like a flag— _here I am! —_ it seemed to shout, just as an old net entangled my body. Regretting the choice to dye it, I cried out, falling on my bad side, tears stinging my eyes even as I refused to let them fall. Everything was blurry and I was so _dizzy_.

Laughter filled my ears for a second, so very much like the laughter of _him_. I nearly screamed, my heart racing and my ears stinging and every single inch of me shaking with exhaustion and _fear_.

Thrashing, I attempted to free my foot from the knotted ropes, a shadow falling over me under the poor lighting of the Gotham night. I panicked, reaching for the rope as I realized I had been _caught_. For a second, I saw _him_ — the Joker. But, I blinked and suddenly he vanished. A second too late, I figured out he had never even been there at all.

Black dots clouded my vision, just as a figure clad in red and green came into view. I fell, head smashing against the concrete as I lost feeling _everywhere_. A domino mask hid the identity of the person in front of me, curly black hair framing his face. Just before I fully sunk into the cold ground, a red _R_ caught my eye, encircled with yellow. _Robin_.

For the first time in my life, a Bat had gotten to me.

I was totally screwed and too exhausted to care. Shutting my eyes, I let myself succumb to fate. 


	3. Rich People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the age from seventeen to fifteen because there will be a time skip next chapter. In that, she'll be seventeen and here she was fifteen. Sweet. Peace out. Enjoy.

When I woke up, everything was hazy. I realized a second late that I wasn't in my bed— well, my mattress on the ground. The sheets were too soft to be mine and as I shifted, no springs drilled into my back. Peeling my eyes open, I winced at the bright light, too bright to be the old lamp sitting on the ground by my door.

Sitting up quickly, I fought off the fantom weight of restraints on my wrists. The white sheets were all I saw at first and my heart started racing. Blurry flashes I couldn't process filled my head, laughter and needles coming to mind. But, the further I woke up, the more I noticed. I was in a bedroom— one I didn't recognize —and while the sheets _were_ white, they weren't scratchy and stiff. They were soft.

My wrists and ankles were free— I wasn't being strapped down, I wasn't confined.

A knock on the door startled me further, knees jerking towards my chest. A flash of pain hit me, reminding me of the cut I got yesterday— or had it been longer? A white bandage wrapped around my lower leg tightly, stark against my skin. The windows let it sunlight, but it seemed too bright to come from one of the Gotham apartments.

"Are you feeling alright?"

I flinched, snapping towards the figure in the doorway. _Richard Grayson_ — Jason's _brother_.

"Why am I here?" I responded, pushing myself onto my feet.

"Batman— Gordon, I'm not sure who, exactly." The twenty-something year old shrugged, a hand coming up to grasp the back of his neck. "Well, someone said you were hurt and we heard that you and Jason . . . "

"Is— is he here?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

His lips twitched into a frown for a second before he corrected himself, looking at the curtains instead of my face. "He's at boarding school right now, actually."

_Liar._

I pretended to be oblivious, understanding I wouldn't be seeing Jason. I should have expected as much; he probably wanted as little to do with me as possible.

Noticing my boots on the ground by what I guessed was a closet, along with my hoodie, I decided it was time to take my leave. I walked on unsteady legs to my possessions, raising my eyebrow. "Did you clean my shoes?"

"Our— Alfred did, yeah. Your sweatshirt too." He sounded awkward, uncomfortable. "He actually sent me to see if you wanted breakfast?"

During the second half of his sentence, his voice raised an octave, like he was embarrassed.

I shook my head at his offer, yanking the red hood up over my head before moving to my shoes. For the first time in ages, the hoodie felt clean and warm, no longer scratchy from dried sweat. The blackened bottoms of my shoes were practically white again and what I suspected were new shoelaces laced through them innocently.

"I have to get back before dark." I insisted, pulling my shoe strings tightly as I knotted them. "My mom'll be worried."

She wouldn't be.

Side-eyeing the boy, I watched him speak with hesitance. "Your _Fari_ — right?"

 _Fari_ — nobody had called me that since Jason.

"Pharoah Ames," I introduced, rocking back on my heels as I straightened.

His eyes met mine and I shifted from one foot to the other as he spoke. "Well, _Pharoah_ , you've been out for nearly two days, another hour won't hurt."

* * *

A half-hour later, I was uncomfortably sat surrounded by faces I had only seen in newspapers and on TV. Bruce _fucking_ Wayne sat at the head of the table, with Richard— _call me Dick,_ he had said —opposite of him and Tim _godammed_ Drake across from me. I was surrounded.

The urge to bolt was lessened by the food— plate after plate of rich people food I didn't entirely recognize, but ate nonetheless. I couldn't remember the last time I had something that didn't come out of a paper bag or a can.

It was nearly nice.

But, I was old enough to know pity when I saw it. It was a rare sight in my part of Gotham, but not entirely nonexistent. And I hated it.

Bruce Wayne didn't care about me. Tim Drake didn't care about me. Richard fucking Grayson didn't care about me. Nobody did. Not since Jason.

Still, I wasn't an idiot. I accepted the containers of food stuffed into an unfamiliar red backpack, this one much nicer and cleaner than mine had been. I let Bruce fucking Wayne ask me about school, bullshitted some interests— _I really like English, but Chemistry is my favorite_ —and gave the appropriate reactions when something was said. When they asked me what my mom did, I lied easily. When they asked about my dad, I told him he lived in another state.

It was nearly true; he was in the Jersey State Pen, where he had been since my mom was pregnant and would be until he died. I had never met him— I doubted he even knew I existed. Drunken flings rarely leave any long-lasting memories.

At the end of the dinner, I was more full than I thought possible and had managed to convince them to let me leave without anyone checking my leg. I would be fine— I had worse than that from the Joker alone. The back of my neck prickled with a reminder. I didn't remember most of what happened when I was . . . _there_ , but the cuts, the burns— all of that healing was still painfully present in my mind.

I pushed past that, focused on the coat being held out to me by Ri— _Dick_. It was black and expensive-looking, with a hood and everything. "Here— take it."

I shook my head, scoffing. "I'm good, man. I don't need any hand-outs."

"It's not a handout," He insisted. "We got the wrong size and if you don't take it'll end up in the trash by the end of the month."

It _did_ look really warm. And it was getting colder by the day— soon I'd really need it. Gotham winters were as harsh and unforgiving as it's citizens. Part of me knew he was lying; the Wayne's didn't seem like the type to waste things, despite their wealth. It was probably meant for Dick or Jason, maybe even Tim.

I took it hesitantly, nodding in thanks as my arms slid through the sleeves. It was a bit big, the sleeves stopping at my knuckles. But, it was warm and clean. I wasn't about to complain.

The bubbly twelve-year-old Tim Drake appeared from seemingly nowhere, beaming up at his brother. I wondered briefly if he looked at Jason like that, but was quick to push the thought from my head. I needed to get back to Crime Alley; this place was messing with my head. 

* * *

"Priest!" One of the younger runners shouted, pausing briefly as he saw me, a green backpack strapped tightly to his chest. "Jack's been lookin' for you."

I nodded, shoving him not-so-gently on his way. The kid started running, getting the hint. Silently cursing, I looked back at Tim, awkward. The kid had offered to come with as their _butler_ — Alfred —dropped me off in the city. I told them I could walk, but they had been . . . persistent. Now, I was at the edge of Crime Alley and a curious rich kid— who was probably a brat when he wasn't around guests, like most spoiled kids —stared at me with eyes too old for his age. It creeped me out.

"Priest?" He questioned, head cocked.

"It's a nickname." I ground after a silent second.

"Why _that?_ "

"I'm really religious," I responded sarcastically, remembering the thug who gave me the nickname. I was eleven, it felt nice to be noticed. The same man who gave me the name had been rotting six feet deep since I was twelve. Nobody remotely nice ever lasted in Gotham.

He rolled his eyes, looking extremely annoyed for a twelve-year-old.

"Well, this has been _fun_ , but I've got places to be— "

"Oh, _yeah,"_ The kid had the nerve to look _disappointed_ , like I was supposed to be . . . _more_.

The well-dressed rich kid started to retreat back into the town car, staring at me before he shut the door. Cursing my conscience, I stepped closer to the car, watching him roll down the window. "Tell Jace to call me."

With wide eyes, he nodded and the car sped off before he said anything else. I stepped back in confusion— I could've sworn that the kid had _tears_ in his eyes when I brought up Jason.

Shrugging it off, I started walking towards the docks, ready to face Jack and whoever else noticed my absence. Jason was _fine_ — he was at some swanky boarding school with his new rich friends and he probably didn't even remember me. 

He wanted to get out, and I guess that he did. Even if he ditched me in the process.


	4. Monopoly

TWO YEARS LATER—

"You're a part of the Bertinelli Sindicit," The newest Robin drawled, looking too regal to be a ten-year-old.

"I'm not formally affiliated with anyone," I responded automatically, glancing at the Bat. Over the years, he always seemed to find a way to track me. I never did figure it out, but he had tried to stop me more than once over the years. And it usually ended like this; me, handcuffed in an alleyway, while the Bat and his sidekicks tried to interrogate me.

But, I was nearly eighteen now— soon, he'd be sending me to jail every time he caught me instead of just talking to me. Hopefully, I'd be gone before he caught me next.

"Why work with them then?" Nightwing spoke up, brow furrowing around his mask. "If you don't get any protection or anything— why?"

I offered a shrug, as though I didn't know. As though I knew nothing. "It's a living."

"Is it?"

Changing the subject, I looked up at Robin, furrowing my brow. "Bat's kinda downgraded, huh?"

The kid nearly lunged, dragged back by Nightwing. I snorted, bangs flying in my eyes. "You _imbecile_ — "

"Wow, what a big word," I fake cooed. "They teach you that on Sesame Street, kiddo?"

"Enough," Batman growled, stepping in front of his birds. "You know when the next shipment is arriving."

I scoffed, turning my head away from him. "No shit, Sherlock."

"Tell us— tell _me_ and I can— "

"You can what?" I clanged the cuffs against the pipe I was chained too. "Help? Your _help_ just gets people dead."

It was hard to keep the anger out of my voice. It was hard to keep sane when Batman was always on your fucking tail. He had made my job a lot more difficult over the years. I wasn't trusted as much now, wasn't given as much money. It was hard to keep afloat and harder to keep from getting in too deep. If I ever joined a gang— if I _really_ joined —there would be no escape. Ever.

A bang erupted from the shadows, breaking my chains and freeing me. I stepped back, grinning as a figure emerged from the darkness.

For months, I had heard rumors of the mysterious _Red Hood_. Some guy with a vendetta against Batman. And, just my luck, he had shown to stop the bust. Just in time.

I grabbed my backpack from where it sat by the newest Robin, beating it as the Bat and his sidekicks were distracted. Shouts rang from behind me, but I didn't dare look back. My pace never slowed, even as I noticed shadows from above, flying nearly as fast as me.

Turning sharply, I half-dove into an empty apartment building, bolting across the abandoned lobby floor and through the back entrance. Without faltering, I sped through the streets, ducking through buildings and making sharp turns until I was sure I had lost them.

It was past midnight by the time I got to my drop point, leaving me with less money than promised and legs shaking with exhaustion. I trudged back to my apartment, numb to the worry most people felt walking through Gotham.

Climbing up the fire escape, I ducked through the broken window, the city lights casting grey brightness through the room. Walking towards my bed— a mattress in the corner of the room —l huffed as I struggled to get off the worn material of my sweatshirt.

This sucked. Everything _sucked_.

I was tired and angry and even though I was freshly seventeen and inching closer to eighteen every day, I felt entirely _stuck_.

"Fuck my life," I groaned, flopping on the mattress.

In the distance, I could hear the traffic and yelling that Crime Alley never went a minute without, my heart beating loudly in my ears. The adrenaline of running had left, leaving me sweaty and sleep-deprived. A circle of metal remained around my wrist from earlier— I would have to pick the lock in the morning to remove the last remains of the handcuffs.

But at that moment, all I wanted was to sleep.

Of course, nothing ever works out how I want.


	5. Wreck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pharoah's left with no choice.

  
He looked different than I remembered, but I recognized him instantly. He was hovering in my now open doorway, all dark blue eyes and black curls that could never be tamed— though there was a white streak through his curls. He looked tired, but not as much as when we were kids. He was taller and—

None of that mattered. Because, he was here. _Jason_.

"I'm going crazy," I shuddered, pushing against my wall, sheets tangling around my legs, trapping me further.

He came closer, eyes wide. "Fari— "

"Stop— _stop_!" My heart sped as I tumbled off the mattress. "You're dead!"

Jason— it's not him —flinched as I screamed, raising his hands in a non-threatening way. "Fari, please— "

Holding a book in front of me as a bad form of protection, I fought to calm my heart. "Stop— _stop it_."

"I promise, it's me— it's me." He breathed, hands dropping to his sides.

A crash sounded from the fire escape before a blur of blue knocked _not Jason_ over. As they fell to the ground, I lept towards the now broken window, diving onto the metal steps and down towards the ground, hands shaking more violently than ever.

"Pharoah!" Another familiar voice shouted after me.

Normally, I would keep moving. Bats brought trouble and heat that I didn't need. But, there was someone walking around with _his_ face and _he_ was in my fucking room. I was out of options.

Turning, I looked at the boy-turned-teen, shoulders dropping. " _Tim_."

His eyes went wide under the mask he wore, whites growing bigger. "How'd you— "

"Talk later, we have to go." I gestured down the alley, away from my apartment, thankful that I had fallen asleep with my shoes on.

The awful growl of a motor covered the noise from above, the famed _Batmobile_ appearing in the night. I had only seen it a couple of times, but I always— _always_ ran the other way whenever I did.

From above, I could hear footsteps coming down the fire escape. Looking up, I cringed at how _relieved_ I felt seeing Nightwing.

Tim— _Red Robin_ —looked at me expectantly, silent. I wondered silently if I could get away fast enough to get away. Then I wondered where I'd even go. There wasn't anywhere— well, anywhere _safe_ that I could go. Not that there ever really was.

The door to Batman's car opened silently, darkness beckoning. I noticed the red backpack in Nightwing's arms, the red hoodie slung over his shoulder. I wondered when I'd grown attached to those two possessions and how he knew I'd want them. That I'd always want them.

I walked towards the car.


	6. Wreck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pharoah's left with no choice.

  
He looked different than I remembered, but I recognized him instantly as I opened my eyes. He was hovering in my now open doorway, all dark blue eyes and black hair that could never be tamed— though there was a white streak through his curls. He looked tired, but not as much as when we were kids. He was taller and—

None of that mattered. Because, he was here. Jason.

"I'm going crazy," I shuddered, pushing against my wall, sheets tangling around my legs, trapping me further.

He came closer, eyes wide. "Fari— "

"Stop— stop!" My heart sped as I tumbled off the mattress. "You're dead!"

Jason— it's not him —flinched as I screamed, raising his hands in a non-threatening way. "Fari, please— "

Holding a book in front of me as a bad form of protection, I fought to calm my heart. "Stop— stop it."

"Fari, I promise, it's me— it's me." He breathed, hands dropping to his sides.

A crash sounded from the fire escape before a blur of blue knocked not Jason over. As they fell to the ground, I lept towards the now broken window, diving onto the metal steps and down towards the ground, hands shaking more violently than ever.

"Pharoah!" Another familiar voice shouted after me.

Normally, I would keep moving. Bats brought trouble and heat I didn't need. But, there was someone walking around with his face and he was in my fucking room. I was out of options.

Turning, I looked at the boy-turned-teen, shoulders dropping. "Tim."

His eyes went wide under the mask he wore, whites growing bigger. "How'd you— "

"Talk later, we have to go." I gestured down the alley, away from my apartment, thankful that I had fallen asleep with my shoes on.

The awful growl of a motor covered the noise from above, the famed Batmobile appearing in the night. I had only seen it a couple of times, but I always— always ran the other way whenever I did.

From above, I could hear footsteps coming down the fire escape. Looking up, I cringed at how relieved I felt seeing Nightwing.

Tim— Red Robin —looked at me expectantly, silent. I wondered silently if I could get away fast enough to get away. Then I wondered where I'd even go. There wasn't anywhere— well, anywhere safe that I could go. Not anymore.

The door to Batman's car opened silently, darkness beckoning. I noticed the red backpack in Nightwing's arms, the red hoodie slung over his shoulder. I wondered when I'd grown attached to those two possessions and how he knew I'd want them. That I'd always want them.

I walked towards the car.


End file.
